


Two Guys in Red

by Pippin_Strange



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Marvel Cinematic Universe Fusion, Avenger Deadpool, Deadpool Spoilers, Deadpool being Deadpool, Marvel 616/MCU Crossover, Marvel Universe, Mild Language, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Precious Peter Parker, Rated for Deadpool's Language, Spider-Man Interacting with New Yorkers, Spider-Man: Homecoming Spoilers, Spiderman/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics) Spoilers, X-Men References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 17:58:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13886115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippin_Strange/pseuds/Pippin_Strange
Summary: Two superheroes in red spandex meet on a skyscraper and then walk into a bar. Just kidding about the bar, since one of them is underage. A one-shot about Spider-Man meeting Deadpool. Deadpool says terrible things not appropriate for children. Peter Parker is... well... Peter Parker. Adult content and language seems hilariously unnecessary to specify, but yes, mature/adult language. I do not pull my punches, so to speak.





	Two Guys in Red

I am no stranger to weird things. You kind of grow accustomed to it when a radioactive spider-bite gives you superhuman abilities, and you start running around New York City in spandex trying to save the world.  
But that doesn’t mean I’m not constantly surprised.  
Tony Stark in my living room flirting with my aunt? Check.  
Meeting Captain America and then stealing his shield? Check.  
Finding out my homecoming date’s dad is a war mongering weapons dealer? Check.  
Getting a new suit and then immediately turning it down? Check…

So running into another masked hero is surprising. Only because I thought I knew, for the most part, who was in my neighborhood.  
But today, there’s a man dressed in a red and black, skintight hero suit with double edged swords crossed over his back. Much like my mask, he has small white lenses in triangles of black.  
He’s sitting on the edge of my designated look-out space, dangling his legs and swinging them happily. He’s drinking a beer from a bottle in a brown paper bag, hiding the label, with an obscenely long straw shoved in the neck of his mask so that he can still drink with his face entirely covered. It looks like he’s watching the early evening sunset over the city, turning the sides of the skyscrapers into blinding gold and orange stripes. 

I walk across the flat roof to the small wall on the edge where the masked guy is slurping and humming a tune. It sort of sounds like Sweet Caroline. 

I drop down beside him, swinging my legs over the edge as I do so. “Sup man,” I say casually.

The guy snorts and coughs. A small wet pattern appears where his mouth should be. He starts to pull the straw out from under his mask. Oddly enough, this takes far longer than it should. He holds up one finger, indicating I needed to be patient and wait.  
The straw must be incredibly long and made for those giant plastic beakers you drink from at a New Years eve party. He keeps pulling it and winding it up like an extension cord until it’s finally completely out.  
“Hi there,” I repeat.  
He holds up his finger again, placing the wadded up straw into the brown paper bag, rolling up the top, and then setting it beside him. Then he turns back to me.  
“What the fuck are you?” he asks.  
“Me? What are you?” I reply, affronted.  
“You can’t say it, can you?” he intones, and if I could see his face, I figure he’d probably be smiling in a tsk tsk tsk sort of way.  
“Say what?” I ask.  
“Go on! I say - what the fuck are you - and YOU say - I dunno, who the fuck are you?”  
I shake my head. “Uh - no thanks…?”  
The guy suddenly looks in the opposite direction, like he’s a tired extra in the background of the Office working at a desk. “Typical,” he whispers. “Censorship.”  
“Uh - you’re not from around here, are you?” I try politely. “Can I get a name? A codename? Associations? Anything?”  
“Sure THING, BRO,” he turns back to me, his voice high pitched with sarcasm. “I’m DEADPOOL, I like long walks on the beach and killing people. You?”  
I shift back an inch. “Uh… I’m… Sp-sp…”  
“Spuh, spuh, spuh,” he repeats. “SPUH-IT IT OUT.”  
“Spiderman,” I reply, my voice suddenly going hoarse. “I’m Spiderman.”  
I can almost hear him blinking rapidly. He winds his hands in a rotating fashion. “AND?” he presses. “Go on.”  
“I’m - uh - I’m from New York.”  
His head whips towards the Manhattan skyline, back to me, then back to the skyline, and then back to me. “No,” he drawls.  
“I mean, uh - I protect - New York.”  
“Gold star!” Deadpool smacks me in the back way too hard. “Nice to meet you, Spiderman from Manhattan. Goodbye.”  
He suddenly throws himself off the side of the building.  
“HOLY SHIT!” I exclaim.  
“Heard that!” I hear him screech in his free-fall.  
I follow his movement and let myself drop from the wall, sending one long stream of web up to the wall we just vacated, and then one down to his flailing form - plummeting down a hundred stories towards the unforgiving asphalt below. It catches him squarely around the middle, slowing his fall, and then mine pulls taut, giving me enough oomph to swing him gently up towards the balcony closest to the ground on the second floor.  
He lands in the balcony and starts making horrible noises, trying to brush away the webbing around his middle.  
I drop onto the balcony beside him. “Uh, you’re welcome, I just saved your life.”  
“IS THIS JIZZ?” He screams.  
“God, no,” I say quickly.  
He continues to squeal in a feminine tone, tugging on it and getting his hands stuck, only making it worse.  
“You just fell off a building and you’re worried about THAT?” I exclaim.  
“WHAT THE FUCK IS IT?”  
“It’s webbing!” I falter. “You know - like… spider web?”  
“WHERE DOES IS COME OUT OF YOU?” Deadpool is still screeching loudly. He looks up and down my body suspiciously.  
“Not out of ME - from my - wrist braces.”  
“Oh, thank god. I thought you were marking me.”  
“Uh, no,” I repeat. When he doesn’t make another snarky response, I try to lean against the wall casually to wait him out, change my mind, and lean on the balcony, crossing my arms over my chest. “So why would a man in a mask like you try to kill himself?” I ask. “And why jump from a building while a hero in a mask is nearby and the odds are that he could probably save you?”  
Deadpool stops fussing at the webbing and marches up to my face, getting awkwardly close. “You had no right to keep me from making a hasty exit,” he snarls. “You were annoying me, so I left. NOT COOL, DUDE.”  
“Left?” I repeat. “I thought you were…”  
“Depressed?” Deadpool infers. “Ah, well, if we do more of this,” he made a chicken beak motion with one hand. “I might get there.”  
He stops talking, but stays about a centimeter away from my face.  
I keep waiting for him to back off, and he doesn’t.  
The more I think about saying Hey, back off, the longer the silence grows.  
It’s becoming awkward.  
I blink slowly, and he’s still there. Uhhh…  
“You’re not going to kiss me, are you?” I squeak. Good lord, Peter. Not cool. Don’t be a loser! You could probably kick this guy’s ass!  
“Did you WANT me to kiss you?” Deadpool asks.  
“NO!” I squawk.  
“Fine,” he says shortly, backing off and walking to the other side of the balcony. He removes one of his swords from his back, and uses it to swipe through the webbing. It surprisingly goes right through.  
“Hey,” I exclaim. “Is that - is that vibranium? I’ve never known it to get cut, really, mostly it just dissolves…” I trail off with uncertainty.  
“If I give you a cookie, will you stop?” he asks, sawing away at the next strand.  
“Do you have cookies?” I respond back sarcastically. “Don’t break my heart.”  
He pauses in his motions and looks up at me, and I could have sworn his white eyes in the mask contracted in some sort of approval for my snark. “It’s adamantium,” he finally grumbles, looking back down and slicing the last one.  
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I ask.  
“Now I owe them .25 cents,” Deadpool whispers over his shoulder, and then replaces the sword on his back and looks back at me. “So - can I complete my exit, here, or are you going to do that uh - that thing - with the thing - again?” He rolls his shoulders like he’s supremely grossed out. “I hope he says no,” he whispers, again, to his opposite side, like he has an imaginary friend he talks to constantly.  
“You can leave, I guess,” I sigh. “I won’t try and stop you.”  
“Somehow people always say those words to me. Usually women, though,” Deadpool places his hands on the railing, ready to launch himself over the side.  
“But,” I exclaim, before he quite gets the momentum to do so.  
“GOD, COME ON,” he barks, banging his head once on the railing in frustration. “THE DIALOGUE FOR THE SAKE OF CHARACTER EXPOSITION IS DRIVING MY NUTS UP THE WALL.”  
“It’s just,” I say quickly, “If I let you fall of this balcony right now - you won’t - hurt yourself, right? Because you’re like me. With powers. Right?”  
“So the part where I jumped off a skyscraper,” he turns around and mimes the action with his hands, making two fingers walk like legs off his arm. “That wasn’t really a giveaway?”  
“No, not really. I didn’t expect it at all. I’ve just - never met - someone similar to me,” I say quickly. “Not in New York.”  
“There’s plenty of heroes in New York,” Deadpool argues. “Don’t you team up with them once in awhile? You know. Fighting aliens and rocks and shit?” He put his gloved palm over his mask where his mouth should be to muffle the next few words. “If I say it, we have to pay trademark fees.”  
“No!” I repeat loudly. “People - like - US!”  
“What, the skin-tight red suit and fighting bad guys in the city?” Deadpool sighs and groans simultaneously in a long, teenager-like whine. “Trivia. Ready? Okay. Spiderman. Deadpool. Daredevil. Scarlet Spider. Red Hulk. Dynamo. Red Raven. The Flash. For the record, not the fastest man alive. I think by season three, he’s probably the fourth or the fifth. For those of you playing at home - YES, I just went there.”  
“I don’t know any of those people,” I held up my hands. “I just - I mean - I didn’t know if you were an Avenger, or…”  
“See! HE can say it! It’s okay for HIM to say it!” His head swings the other way and looks, annoyed, at the wall.  
“So you aren’t allowed to say you’re an Avenger? But you are?”  
“Not yet,” he says in a sing-song voice, creepily, making a strange typing motion with his hands. Then he holds up one finger in the air. “CHA-CHING.”  
“So you’ve been approached then?”  
“Not yee-eet,” he says again, looking back at me. “But then again, I don’t know that I will be. There’ll be a lot of THIS… a big f-BEEP-and-my-BEEPking when the pBEEEP.”  
I don’t know how, but everything coming out of his mouth is getting bleeped out.  
“What the BEEP are you FBEEPKING LOOKING THE BEEP AT?” he grouses.  
I tilt my head, confusedly.  
“You can’t hear me, can you?” he asks sadly.  
“Uh… no?”  
“So it begins,” he whispers ominously.  
That was a sample of my censorship protocol, Karen’s voice says in my ear. Shall I keep it on?  
I tap the side of my head with some annoyance. “Quit it, Karen.”  
“WHO THE FUCK IS KAREN!” Deadpool exclaims. “Jesus! First the guy DROPS down beside me and is like ‘Heyyyy dude’ and then drops his slimey shit all over me and now DIS BITCH KAREN is LIKE…”  
“Just - just, stop, okay?” I am getting so annoyed at this point I almost wish I hadn’t stopped his fall at all, just to see what happened.  
No, that’s not true. I’d still save him. Curse you, lawful good.  
“What do you WANT from me?” Deadpool exclaims dramatically, clasping his hands like he is begging for his life. “I got no monay! I got no jaaawb! I got no…”  
“STOP!” I bark. “I want - to - know - if I need to take you out, or let you go, okay? If I can’t tell if you’re one of us - you know, wearing a MASK, and all - then how do I know you’re not some Hydra agent? Or one of Loki’s people? Or worse? Marching right back to where you go and hurt people and induce crime syndicates and do bad stuff in my city?”  
For a guy that has a mask over his face, he certainly can express himself fairly well. He looks terribly surprised. “Take… me… out?” he says. “Or let me go?”  
“Y-Yeah,” I cross my arms over my chest, trying to look intimidating. Getting better at this part of the job. “Why the mask? Criminal, or hero?”  
“DING DING DING, and he goes for choice D - NONE OF THE ABOOOOOOOVE!” Deadpool screeches unpleasantly. “But I’ll answer your questions anyway - ONE - Mask to hide my stunningly good looks, comparable to, but not limited to, that glorious moment in every pizza commercial where the slice lifts away from the pie in slow motion and the cheese stretches for too long and little holes start to rip in it…” He pauses. “Damnit, now I just want pizza.”  
I open my mouth to speak, and shut it again. ……. What?  
“TWO, criminal - yes, yes, and yes, except for the part where I am a CRIM-MIN-NAAAAHL,” he says this with a French accent.  
I don’t react. I can’t react.  
“Hello? Peter? Not ringing any bells?”  
Peter.  
He just said my name.  
I barely flinch, but my mind begins to race in a panic and I feel a cold chill run down the back of my spine. How does he know my name?  
“Peter Sellers?” he adds. “COME ON. The INSPECTOR?”  
“Who… who is the inspector?” I ask sheepishly. Not the same Peter. Thank god.  
“Jesus! Kids these days SUCK! You don’t even know who that is, do you?”  
“No,” I manage in a small voice. For a moment I thought he was outing me. The relief I felt was making my stomach clench.  
“THREE - hero. I mean. Sure. Yeah. X-Men. Bald men. It’s sort of our thing. You wouldn’t understand. Maybe you will, someday, though. Maybe not until after the trilogy though, and eight-movie contract, and petitions to get you more, until you’re weeded out for new blood. Happens every decade. Later, Bana, hello, Eddie.”  
I throw my hands in the air. “I have no idea what you are saying. I don’t know - I don’t think you know. I give up… I give up.” I tap my ear. “Karen, search all databases known to mankind for any reference to some jerk who calls himself Deadpool.”  
“Hey, that’s Jerk-OFF,” corrects Deadpool pleasantly.  
“I just need to know what you’re HERE, for, is all, okay?” I turn back to him. “It’s MY burrough. You are in MY neighborhood, man. Get with the program or get out. Or I’ll make you.”  
Deadpool tilts his head, but not in a questioning way. More like he sizing up which part of my body to stab with one of his swords first.  
“You keep casually threatening me like you have no idea what I can do to you,” he says smoothly.  
“I would say that you keep disregarding my questions almost like YOU have no idea what I can do to YOU,” I answer, just as smoothly. My Spiderman quipping has gotten me out of trouble before, or at times, fail me when I need them the most. I can’t honestly tell which way this will swing.  
“Well,” Deadpool shrugs. “Since murdering children is technically illegal…”  
“Murdering anyone is technically illegal,” I snap.  
“I’m going to let you off with a little warning, officer,” he says. “I’m just going to walk away - and not brutally maim you for the sheer fucking joy of it. And you’re just going to let me because - believe me - if there is any attempting maiming, I will quickly be un-maimed. Just in tinier pieces.”  
“Huh?” I ask before I can stop myself. My Spider-sense flickers just ever-so-slightly on the back of my neck. He means his threats, but I don’t necessarily feel as if I am danger. I think he is quite happy to maim anyone but has no plans to execute the threat today.  
“Should I break it down for you in a rap?” he asks. “Isn’t that what New Yorkers do?”  
“Not… all of them?”  
There is an awkward silence. He steps back to the balcony again. “Okay,” he says, “Let’s try this again.” His voice adapts to a slower, musical tone, like he is running guided meditation in a yoga class. “I am placing my hand on the railing.” He does so. “Now I am stepping up onto the railing,” he follows his own instructions here as well. “I’m about to drop down a single story, land on the sidewalk, and start walking away. Nothing this young, sprightly gentleman can say will goad me into staying… no matter how tempting…” he goes over the side of the balcony, clinging to the balustrades, slowly lowering himself out of my eyeline, still chatting away by himself. “No matter how this unnecessary piece of information I am sliding into this monologue affects the emotional climax by noting that I have difficulties leaving anything unresolved since I am a mercenary by nature, but first and foremost a conversationalist with lack of self control…”  
“It shouldn’t be this hard,” I say flatly.  
His knuckles suddenly stiffen. I hear a loud cry of anguish. His fingers re-grip and I hear angry little huffy sounds as he pulls his upper body up once more, just enough for the top of his head to stick up over the edge. He plants one elbow back up top. “That’s what she said,” he whispers with a satisfied grunt.  
“Please leave New York,” I say tiredly. “Just… leave.”  
“The city or the state?” he clarifies. “Cuz - I mean - yeah - I’ll leave the city, not because you asked me to - but - I have business. Upstate. So I kinda have to stay in New York. The state. Can you tell me the fastest way to the freeway from here?”  
“Are you going to the Avengers facility?” I ask.  
“A private high school, actually,” he corrects. “The nuns are kinky and the kids are easily convinced to leave.”  
“Wait, what?” I step forward automatically.  
“Jesus, relax. I’m kidding. There’s no nuns and I’m supposed to borrow the kids. Seriously. Do you have any sense of humor at all?”  
“Usually,” I respond, “But my environment for comparison is WAY off today.”  
“Oh, I get it, this is why we don’t crossover,” he plants his chin in his palm like a kid admiring the sunshine out of a classroom window. “I steal your spotlight. In your circle, you’re the funny one.”  
“Please leave,” I repeat.  
“It’s okay. I get it. You feel emasculated.”  
“I said leave.”  
“Why? Watchya gonna do about it?” He looks way too excited about this.  
“Last time I punched something,” I reply, “I broke a bus in half. So. Just go.”  
“What did the bus ever do to you?”  
“It talked too much and made dumb jokes.”  
“Sounds like a really scary bus.”  
Deadpool is a known vigilante who often recruits for the X-Men, Karen’s voice suddenly interrupts. He is what is known as a mutant - which is a very top secret, underground term coined to describe an evolved human being with powers they are born with.  
“Like an Inhuman?” I ask.  
“What the fuck is an Inhuman?” Deadpool admonishes.  
Not like an Inhuman - it’s not alien biology. Gifted - or enhanced, is the street term used by most organizations, mostly just due to their lack of knowledge.  
“Dangerous?” I ask.  
“Why are you asking ME? You’re the one punching the headlights out of the Magic School Bus!”  
Like any other human, Karen deadpans sweetly, They have a choice between peace, violence, and the gray areas in-between.  
“Deadpool,” I specify.  
“Yes?” he asks.  
Yes, Karen also says. A mercenary. But not working for an evil corporation or agency, if that helps. Just himself.  
“Have… a nice night,” I finish.  
“You mean I came up here just for that?” he sighs, and his hands release the railing.  
I hear him drop to the cement below, as I look over the side. I hear the strains, this time, of someone humming a Lil’ Wayne tune, fudging up the words and filling in gaps with nonsense that doesn’t make any sense. His figure ducks into the nearest alleyway.  
He still never really specified what powers he has, and that annoys me. “I probably should have punched him,” I say out loud.  
“I THOUGHT OF ANOTHER ONE,” suddenly Deadpool’s head whips around the corner of the alley, and he’s holding up his middle finger. “Heroes in skintight red suits.”  
“Okay,” I sigh, with nothing better to do, “Who?”  
“Carnage. Ever heard of him?”  
“No?”  
“Oops. Consider this your foreshadowing, then.”  
“Uh. Okay.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Karen, make a note of the the name Carnage.”  
Of course.  
The sun finally dips behind the horizon, shrouding the streets in a murky, pollution-heavy darkness. Deadpool is still holding out his middle finger.  
“Why are you still flipping me off?” I ask.  
Deadpool makes a horrified gasp, pushes his finger down with his other hand, and then watches as his finger rises back up as if it’s on it’s own accord. He tries to push it back down again, and a third time, gasping louder each time as he does so. “Sorry, I don’t know why he’s like this,” Deadpool apologizes. “He’s never like this. I should just take him home.” He cups his hand to his chest and turns, disappearing down the alleyway again.  
This time, he does not emerge a third time.  
Feeling somehow as if I’ve wasted my evening, and not entirely sure what just happened - and not even sure if I WANT to know what just happened - I am almost relieved at the sound of sirens some distance away, calling me to time better spent.  
Helping. Saving people.  
And every so often, using a sense of humor that doesn’t require an adult content warning. 

…  
…

THE END

…  
...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading, you guys! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment :) If you'd like to see more one-shots, I'd be interested in taking prompts!


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